The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E14

Episode Date: March 17, 2019

It's episode 14 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about those unsettling things which aren't quite right.   "Burying Uncle Gustav"† written by Mike Murphy and performed by David Ault & Elie Hirschman & Mick Wingert. (Story starts around 00:03:10) "End Zone"† written by R. L. Atwell and performed by Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson & Armen Taylor. (Story starts around 00:18:20) "The Changeling"† written by Rene Rehn and performed by Kyle Akers & Mike DelGaudio & Graham Rowat & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:39:45) "How to Exit Your Body"‡ written by Christopher Maxim and performed by Jeff Clement & Matt Bradford. (Story starts around 01:04:30) "Dumping a Body"¤ written by Maxwell Horton and performed by Jesse Cornett & Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:28:45) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about SCP Archives   Click here to learn more about Rene Rehn   Click here to learn more about Christopher Maxim   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Changeling" illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy Audio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Audio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to our sleepless sanctuary. You enter at your own risk and choose to be entertained with dark and disturbing horror stories. You have been warned for the dark hours when you dare not clitails of horror to frighten and disturbed. As the sleepless hours tick. Brace yourself for the no-sleepless sleep. Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Sanctuary. I'm David Cummings. Our service this week features tales about those unsettling things which aren't quite right. If you're fans of horror and online stories which share creepy, unexplained phenomenon, and I think it's safe to assume you are,

then you'll want to check out a new podcast starting this week. You may have heard about the SCP Foundation. Special containment procedures for locating and containing individuals, entities, locations, and objects that violate natural law. SCP, secure, contain, protect. There are things that go bump in the night, fantastic things, horrible things, redacted things. The SCP Foundation was built to keep humanity safe from a world of beings it doesn't want to know anything. exist. Things of wonder, things of destruction, and these things have files, a lot of files. From the Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network, this is the new podcast, SCP Archives. Join the creators of creepy, small-town horror, lake clarity, and more as they take you into the darkness

and unlock some of the internet's most amazing stories, courtesy of sCPwiki.com. Some may scare you, some may make you laugh, some may make you question your place in this world, and some may even make you... But you'll have to listen for yourself to find out. SCP Archive Podcast with John Grills launches Tuesday, March 19th. Find it wherever you get your podcasts. But you don't need to wait for scary tales. We have five of them ready and waiting.

So now it's time for our service. us to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words. In our first tale, the owner of a funeral home finds himself in the middle of a particularly nasty family drama. You know what it's like with extended families? There's always that one awkward relative who you'd rather avoid. But as author Mike Murphy shows us, sometimes avoidance isn't an option and you have to confront the problem. head on. Performing this tale are David Alt, Ellie Hirschman, and Mick Wingert. So let's find out what happens when they try burying Uncle Gustav. It had been a long day, and Hobson was glad that Mr. Weems would be his funeral home's last client of the evening. The man was thin,

approaching gaunt, and well-dressed. He wore a bowl a hat, which he took off to greet his host, revealing a thinning head of blonde hair. Over one shoulder, he carried a zippered overnight bag. Hobbson offered his client a chair. He took the other one, his back to several floor model caskets on display. I'd like to thank you for choosing a Hobson funeral home in your time of need. Thank you for agreeing to meet me after normal business hours. Think nothing of it. Sorrow does not punch a time clock.

We're all subject to death's schedule. Many of my clients have day jobs and need to meet with me during the nighttime hours. Oh, that's not the case at all. No? Actually, I'm unemployed at the moment. I just thought it best that we meet at night. May I take your bag? No, I mean, I prefer to keep it handy.

How may I help you? I need to make funeral arrangements for my uncle Gustav. My condolence is on your loss. I trust he lived a good long life? Oh, he certainly did. But that casket would do nicely. You have a keen eye, sir. The Model 107i is of impeccable quality and made entirely here in the United States.

I can get you one in... I want that one. But it's a floor model. So? Well, there might be some nicks or scratches on... Uncle Gustav will not mind. I can understand your desire to make these arrangements as quickly as possible, but we simply do not allow our customers to purchase floor model caskets.

I can get you a brand new 107 I and just... Can't you sell me that one and replace it later on? Even if it's not the way you usually do business? Well... I'll pay full price. I suppose I could sell it to you if you insist. I do. I'll see what we can do about covering up any marks on it, so the mourners...

There will be no mourners. No one to grieve your uncle's passing? Not a soul. No family? Only me. And I choose not to mourn him for personal reasons. Flowers? None.

Services? No? I see. Is there a problem? No, but I've seldom interred anyone in such a thrifty manner. If you cannot honor my wishes... No, please, don't think that, sir. I will honor your wishes for your uncle to the letter.

To the letter! Good. Here's my card. On the reverse, you'll find the address. of my family's local cemetery plot where Uncle Gustav is to be buried. Mm-hmm. Yes, I know the area.

Where can I find the body? It should be here, presently. Well, someone is bringing it by? Not exactly. Hobson noticed the smoke seeping in from under the door. He leapt to his feet, motioning for Weems to come with him quickly. The client did not bother to even turn.

There is no fire. But the smoke? It's mist. There's no need to panic, I assure you. You'll want to put this on. A garlic necklace. Why would I... Because that mist is Uncle Gustav.

The mist dissipated into the figure of a portly, bald man dressed in a slightly too small suit. He wants you to wear the garlic necklace. Mr. Hobson, because I am a vampire. It should keep you safe. So nice to see you again, uncle. You're a poor liar. Still hungry?

Famished. Sorry, but my blood isn't on the menu. So you say, I will keep trying. One day you will let your car down and I will be ready. For years, I've been using every trick in the book to keep you from making a meal of me. I know I found it most aggravating. Why do you need his blood, sir? I thought any blood...

Not when your soul, if you still possess one, is seized with loneliness. What? My immortality makes me terribly lonely. I need companionship. and my only living relative is him. Think about it, nephew. Together, we could rule the night. You're forgetting that I would have to die first.

A mere technicality. Maybe to you. You've been following me around since you died three years ago. I'm getting tired of it. Garlic and crosses aren't cheap, you know. I can't lead my life wondering if you'd be around the next corner. I need to put a stop to this. Oh.

This way. Oh, great. Did you sharpen that steak yourself? I did. The mallet is from the hardware store. Hobson sat dumbstruck, taking in the scene before him. You're not capable of killing me. You don't have what it takes.

You were always the shy, bookish time. You're not. men enough. Times change. Hobson couldn't bring himself to intervene. However, when Wings was finally able to position the stake of Gustav's heart, he did call out. Mr. Weems, no. Blood spurted profusely about as Weems pounded on the steak with the mallet. Gustav let out several agonized cries before dropping to the floor still. His nephew let go of the mallet. Weems stood silent for a moment in his blood-stained suit,

trying to catch his breath from the exertion. Hobson rose from his chair, not believing what he had just seen. He walked to his client, looking down at Gustav's body, the stake about halfway into his heart. I... I've never... Help me. Pick him up.

Me? Trust me, please. Hobson reluctantly did as he was asked, grabbing the corpse's feet while Weems took the hands. With difficulty, they picked up the body and, at the count of three, swung it into the 107-I casket. See now why I wanted this coffin? I didn't have the time to wait.

I suspected Uncle would visit me here while we were talking. Weems briefly rubbed at some of the blood drying on his hands, before looking up at the shocked Hobson. Is something wrong? Is something wrong? You just murdered a man in my funeral home, and you... I murdered no one. He's been dead for years.

I sent a vampire to his eternal rest. Do you expect me to believe that? You saw him materialize out of the mist. How could a living person do that? No, but... Do you honestly think I could commit murder in front of a witness, And on your security cameras?

I don't. You will see to the burial? I... I don't know what to say. Hobson stared down at the bleeding corpse at his feet. The stake protruded from his chest like a marker. I will pay Hensel me for your services. Twice your regular fee.

Mr. Weems. You are businessman, sir, and money is money, is it not? Also, you are in this. very deeply yourself. Me? How would you explain what would not hear this evening to the police, hmm?

You did not try to stop me? You even helped me lift the body into the casket. Weems had the funeral director right where he wanted him, and Hobson knew that. I will require a death certificate indicating that dear Uncle Gustav

passed on at 9.17 p.m. That's not in my power. You'll need a medical examiner or a doctor for that. Oh, I don't suppose you'll have any trouble finding me one willing to keep his mouth shut for a price. I can think of a couple. Excellent. Well, why do you need a death certificate?

Wasn't one issued when your uncle passed on for the first time? Well, yes, but it was deemed in error by the authorities. What authorities? My family, sir, is from a small village in Germany. Its name is unimportant. when Uncle Gustav, as you put it, died for the first time, he left everything he had to me. Was he a wealthy man?

Incredibly. However, the judge refused to honor the terms of Uncle's will since Gustav had been seen by several good and true men walking the streets after his burial. Not dead? Ah, uh, uh, undead. A new death certificate and Uncle Gustav's absence from the village's streets will prove that he'll be able to be.

now deceased in every way. And verify that the terms of his will should finally be honored? Precisely. That is how I will be able to pay you and your doctor friend such exorbitant sums for your service and silence. The nephew looked at his finally dead uncle lying in the floor model casket and gently, almost reverently, touched the stake protruding from his heart. Be very careful with this. Mr. Hobson. You can file it down a bit if it prevents the coffin lid from closing, but do not remove it.

I'm not versed enough in vampire law to know what that might do. Of, of, of course. I would like uncle to be buried after dark and as quietly as possible. I can do that. Finally, it would be unwise to draw attention to this matter. Who would believe me? Very true. Weems stooped to retrieve the blood-soaked mallet from the floor and handed it to Hobson.

Oh, you'll want to hold on to this. Get it away from me. But you may need it. I beg your pardon? In case uncle returns. You're kidding, right? I can't be sure. But he's dead.

You drove a stake through his heart. I've seen enough movies to know that's how you kill a vampire. Usually, but... There never has been a vampire quite like Uncle Gustav. I wouldn't put it past him to find a way around that whole steak through the hard thing. You mean he might come back to life? Unlikely, but possible. I wouldn't want you to become his latest victim if he does rise again.

Hobson fingered the garlic necklace he had forgotten about. You said this would protect me. I said it should protect you. Uncle may find a way around that too. The mallet will best keep you safe. Hobson's eyes darted between the corpse in the 107 eye and the crimson mallet in his right hand. If you're suggesting that I pound the stake further into your uncle's heart, if I see him begin to move... That's exactly what I'm suggesting.

I couldn't. Even with the alternative. Your undeth. Once again, Weems had the upper hand. You... You have a point. The wait shouldn't be long. Only until sunrise.

That's at 6.47 a.m. For the years, Gustav has been hunting my blood. I've made it a point to always know the times of the sun's rise and set. If he doesn't stir before them, you should be safe. But I... Good evening, Mr. Hobson. I will call on you after sunrise and make certain it's all well. It's a glorious evening.

There's no better feeling than having a tremendous weight finally lifted from your shoulders. Without a look back, Weems strode out into the night, gently pulling the door shut behind him. Mallet in one hand, Hobson looked around his parlour. He had a lot of cleaning to do after sunrise. His free hand shaking, he pulled a chair up beside Gustav's casket. He noticed the music playing over the speakers.

Had it been on all this time? He exhaled deeply and sat down, his legs quivering. Hobson rocked uneasily in his chair, his eyes glued to the corpse beside him. Please stay dead, Uncle Gustav. Please. People make mistakes. It's normal. An error in judgment here, a lapse in concentration there, and you're left with something you're always going to regret.

But as author R.L. Atwell shows, some of these moments haunt us more than others. Some mistakes replay over and over and over. Performing this tale are Dan Zippula, Atticus Jackson, and Armand Taylor. So hurry up. There's only nine seconds left to join us as we try to reach the end zone. Nine seconds left. Nine seconds left. Nine seconds. to send this pigskin soaring home. Nine seconds to traverse this slick and green battlefield of uniformed monsters. Rain continues to hammer the stadium from the endless night above. The soft aura of the water's impact

surrounds our helmets and pads. A wash of industrial light bathes us on the nearly waterlogged field. I can hear the droplets attack my head. the sound of a thousand tiny drums in my helmet, preparing me for the brutal trial in front of me. I bite down on my mouthguard, a faint ache rinsing my jaw.

This is it. This is the big one. We're taking this victory, something to carry home as a testament to our strength, our undivided ambition for glory. I'd always loved football. Ever since I was a kid, me and my dad used to toss around an old ball he'd picked up at a garage sale from a neighbor a few houses down the block. I loved that thing.

So many memories of summer evenings in the backyard. Mom would come out from the kitchen with freshly made lemonade, and when the sun went down, my dad would tell me stories from his glory days on the varsity team. Man, I thought he was just the coolest. So that was it. Football. No careers advisor, no employment seminars. Just football.

Lucky for me, I must have been a chip off the old block because I seem to have no problem making the Little League team or the high school team. And now college, the foothold into the big time, where the pros get to do what they love and get paid damn well for it too. Yeah, this was me. This, this was what I was meant to do, no doubt in my mind. And this was the last game of the season. If we won it here, we'd win it all. Trophy, photographs in the papers, hey, maybe even a sports agent was sitting up in the bleachers, just waiting for that one guy with the right stuff to show himself and get a first-class ticket to the top.

This was the night. The night it had all been working towards, every beep test, every drill, this was going to be the payoff. I knew the plan. We must have run through it with Coach Klein in the locker room at least a dozen times before tonight. And then another dozen at halftime. It was simple.

I knew where I had to be, and so did everybody else. And if they didn't, God helped them when this was over. I looked to my right. Jerry gives me the nod. I turn my head to the left, a poultice of sweat and rainwater swinging free from my face, joining the downpour. Pete knocks his knuckles against his headgear and lets out a mighty but quick roar. The kind of roar a Spartan warrior would bellow before,

a bloody skirmish. It was his ritual. Not my thing, but it got him pumped. I turned to center, like a king surveying my estate, plotting my course, praying, I make it. The crowd. The crowd is screaming with excitement. I know it's a cliche, but you can feel the electricity in the air. This matters. This matters more than anything I had ever done. My dad is out there somewhere, huddled in some old anorak he dug out from the trunk of his car, probably risking pneumonia or something, just to see his baby boy score that final touchdown for his team. No, get your head in the game.

This isn't the time for emotional fantasies. I have a game to win, and it's going to take all my focus. All my effort. Every ounce of my being will be exhumed in the next nine seconds. I look down at my cleats, caked in mud and scuffed around the sides, blades of grass ingrained in my footwear. I feel my toes squelch against the thick wool of my socks inside. My laces are done up, tight and secure, no chance of betrayal as I take my stride. I crouch as I prepare for the whistle, for the whole. of war to blow.

Ready to receive that giant golden egg as it flies through the tempest, as it spirals towards me. We're going to fake the quarterback's throw to our wide receiver on the right. Then when their safeties and cornerbacks start to move for the wing, the real pass is going to come to me on the tight end. All I have to do is get past the outside linebacker without losing too much momentum. With Brad, big Brad, we call him, on my right, ready to act as my right, ready to act as my tackling guard, I'm too worried. He's a monster of a man. At only 21, he's already pushing 6'7.

And if by some miracle, the opposing player in front of me could take the hit and manage to bring me down, I have Jerry the jet on my flank to take the package to the end zone. It's foolproof. They'll never see it coming. The rain continues to bombard the field. The terrain will make things tricky, but I have faith in my teammates and in myself. I look up to the guy in front of me. His eyes are fixed on mine. He has his target picked out, ready to run me down like a bulldozer

the second the whistle blows. Hey, I'm taking you out, boy! His eyes narrow as he speaks. Thin streaks of black grease run down his cheekbones like war paint on a savage barbarian. I don't reply. I don't need to.

I'll let my actions and what comes next speak for me. I hunker down, ready to make a mad dash for the end zone. My thighs, muddy and thick, press against my abdomen. My fist embeds into the sodden grass at my feet, gripping tightly into the blades and roots from the ground. I feel the studs on my cleats rip and tear at the earth in anticipation of my bursting sprint. I take one deep, long breath in through my nose and release it past my spit-soaked mouthguard,

forming a condensing mist through the bars across my face. And then, silence. Like a greyhound out of its box, I explode into action. Brad ignores his own adversary and makes a beeline straight for the cocky amateur in front of me. Before the unlucky participant realizes what's happened, and he's knocked down harder than I've ever seen anyone get knocked down. His mouthguard flies out of his helmet into the air above him as his boots kick up splatters of mud and wet grass into my face.

He lands with an almighty, drenching thud as I nimbly avoid the altercation. Big Brad has done his job. Now I have to do mine. With Jerry on my left, we infiltrate the opposite half of the war zone. Behind enemy lines I throw quick but frequent glances over my shoulder, ready to catch a glimpse of the ball as it hurdles forward, cutting through rain and overtaped reaching hands like a missile through a firefight. I see it flying towards me, water cascading a helix of liquid behind it as it soars.

I know what I have to do. I spin around with no hesitation. I catch the ball with both hands and embrace it. I hold it to my breast like a newborn. Without missing a beat, I continue my almost choreographed movement and carry on running. I run so damn hard. Faster than I think I've ever run before. My calves are burning, my chest stinging and tightening,

feet still squelching and forging through the soaked ground beneath me. But I'm not giving up. This is my time. This is my time to show the world. just how good I am. This is the time to show my dad that all those hours in the backyard meant something.

That it wasn't just time playing with his little boy. It was practice, an investment. It was his hard work put in, and this was me giving it all back with interest. It's happening. I can see the end zone. I can get there.

It's a good 20 or 30 yards. But I know, I know I can make it, make all my dreams come true. Well, I must have gotten lost in the moment or something, because without warning, I'm smashed in the side by some huge indomitable force. The impact is intense. I lose my balance. I fall forward and with a hellacious slash of mud and pain. I hit the ground.

I hit it hard. So very hard. I'm hazed. Dizzy. Not quite sure what had just happened. Did I make it? It wasn't that far. Maybe I had just made it to the end zone before I got taken out.

Maybe Jerry picked up the ball and brought it home for us. God damn. I hope so at least. My head is throbbing now. My legs are tired from the exercise. My arms aching from the land. I slowly make it back to my feet, fumbling with my gloves to undo the strap under my chin and free myself from the encasing around my skull. Slowly, carefully, I lift the helmet over my ears and pass my head.

It feels good to get some air around me again, some relief from the clammy sweat and heat surrounding my head. As I placed the headgear under my arm, I looked down and notice one of my shoelaces had come undone during my ordeal. Hey, don't worry, brother. We got this one. It's Brad approaching me from behind. Considering I'd just lost us the big game, the well-over six-footer seems in an oddly pleasant mood. I'd half expected him to drive me three feet into the ground

with one overhanded thump. But he doesn't. He simply takes a few paces to my left and hunches down as if ready to push forward again. But the game is over. We have no more time. I had messed it up. I had failed.

What is he thinking? I look around to see if anyone else is indeed seeing what I'm seeing. Jerry walks up a few yards to my right. We make eye contact. He nods that same nod he gave me before the whistle blew nine seconds ago. I look back in front of me. The entire opposing team is lined up in their defense formation, ready to take our attack and play.

What's happening? Had I read the game's countdown clock wrong? I look up, hand to my brow, to hinder the floodlights dominating glow. No, the clock still says nine seconds. But how? It was nine seconds like 20 seconds ago. There's no way that's correct. Pete has started his ritual again, but it isn't.

just his usual ritual. Well, it is, but it's too usual. It's exactly the same as before. The tone, the volume, even his aggressive mannerisms are identical to what I'd seen previously tonight, not even a minute ago. Hey, I'm taking you out, boy. This confirms it. Something really weird is happening. I quickly assess my surroundings. We're at the halfway line. We're at the halfway line. Some way, somehow, I had been moved, teleported back to the place I was before the whistleblue. What the hell is going on? I had just done this. I had just experienced this entire scenario a few moments ago.

But how? This wasn't deja vu. This wasn't some glitch in the Matrix where you see the same cat twice in the same day. No, no, this was like God had just hit. the rewind button to see the match highlights again. I'm shaken, terrified. I look down to see that my shoelaces are both tied. Both tied secure and tight for the run I'm about to make.

Again. Put your goddamn helmet on already. Brad's rather contentious attention shifts towards me as I suddenly realize that I'm holding up the start. Confused and bewildered, I quickly forced the helmet over my head. head, squashing my ears and fasten the strap under my chin. I take my place among my brethren and prepare for what I already know is about to happen. I hunch down, grip the soil, engage my core, and when the whistle blows for the second time, I run. Same as before,

Big Brad comes hurdling out from behind me, knocking the loudmouth clean out of his cleats. He goes down the same way, the same spluttering of mud and water sprinkling my sweat-covered face. I dodge it again. Same movements. Same steps. My body takes over, muscle memory kicks in. I had done this before. I know what I have to do.

I start to stride to increase my gait. Maybe this time I can do it. Maybe I had just imagined it the first. time, or maybe it was some kind of otherworldly clearvoyance that allowed me to foresee my downfall and make amends. I turn at the same moment I had initially. A perfect spiral meets my open hands, and as safe as a Swiss bank, that ball is once again in my possession. Jerry is up on my right flank. He's faster than I am, but there's no way I'm letting him take this one from me. This is my score, my victory.

My dad is up in those stands on his feet, screaming his lungs to bursting, screaming his son's name. The entire stadium bursts with noises of awe and energy. Yes! I can see the end zone. I'm so close. Only a few more strides, and I can do it.

Again, I had neglected my left flank. Again, I was knocked off balance. I hit the ground hard. What happened? I mean, I know what had just happened, but how could I let it? I knew what was coming. I'd seen it, felt it before. I'd experienced it before. I let it happen. I let it happen again. I let myself fail. I let my coach down. I let my team down. I let my team down. I let My dad down. I roll over onto my back. The rain continues to fall.

It runs down my face like a waterfall, pooling in my closed eyes before escaping down the sides of my face. My boots are run ragged, laces frayed off into an entangled mess as they had done before. Again, all my muscles are burning. There's fire in my bones as I struggle to catch the breath in my heaving chest. chest. Get up.

I open my eyes slowly to see the hulking great Adonis Brad towering over me, hand outstretched. I grab his open hand. With what seems to be little effort, he hoists me to my feet. I'm sorry, man. I drop my head in shame. That's when I see it. That's when I noticed the same thing I had noticed before. My shoelace.

My shoelace is tied. It's nice and tight around the arches of my foot. A perfect fit. I nearly throw up there and then. I look up at Brad, hopeful he can provide me some comfort, some insight into why this is happening. He places his wide, hair-knuckled hand on my shoulder pad

with a widespread smile. Don't worry, brother. We got this one. He hops into a gentle jog, passing my slack-jawed expression as I track him a few yards across the field until he meets the halfway line. The opposing team joins him. Same positions. Same goddamn rituals. Smacks and spitting and bellows of war.

This can't be real. It just can't be. What's happening? to me. Am I going crazy? I checked the clock again. Nine seconds. It still says nine seconds. I turn my attention back to the game. Jerry catches my eye and nods. The players hunched to take their starting positions. The whistle blows. I run. I dodge. I catch the ball and I get knocked down. I get up, I run, I dodge, I catch, I get knocked down, I get up. I run, dodge, catch, get knocked down.

Over and over and over again, it happens. The rain hammers my body. The mud smothers my clothes. The players roar. The crowd roars louder. I keep thinking I can change the outcome, change the result, but it never changes. The play has been sad. We went through it a dozen times, but I've played it more than that.

I've played it at least a hundred times, maybe more, and still it stays the same. Why can't I win? Why can't I be the son my dad always wanted? Why can't I fulfill his dream and reach the end zone? I don't know. But what I do know is, nine, six, Seconds will never be enough. Children are a precious gift.

As they begin to grow up, inevitably they change and not always for the better. In this tale from author René Ren, one boy's strange behavior leads to fear, suspicion, and accusations. But when all the attention is on one deviant presence, it's easy to miss what else might be going on around you. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Mike Delgadoo, Graham Rowett, and Nicole Doolin. So keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your delinquent kids the closest of all, as we launch the hunt to weed out the changeling. There are sometimes tales that you can't believe really happened. It was on a mild Saturday afternoon that I heard one such tale.

My dad had tasked me to mow the lawn and to clean up the old shack next to our house. It had taken me most of the morning and the good part of the afternoon. When I finally closed the door of the shack, I noticed our neighbor, Mr. Coons. The old man was sitting outside on a bench in front of his house. He was reading from what I assumed to be his Bible. He had always been a very religious and devoted Christian.

In the last years, though, he'd been drawn more and more to the Holy Scripture. I often wondered if it was because of his Bible. old age, and if death was an ever-present impending shadow. I'd always liked the old man. When I was younger, he'd often watch over me when my parents weren't around. I had spent so many afternoons talking with him. He was one of the nicest people I knew, so of course I went over to greet him. When I was there, I found him trembling. Mr. Coons, is everything all right? When I saw the tears running down his cheeks, I asked again. time louder, more alarmed. It took the old man a few more moments to realize that I was there,

but then he smiled and shook his head. It's nothing, Martin. But you were crying. Everything's, everything's fine. I'm just an old man and I remember something. You're shaking. What did you remember? Was it something bad? The old man looked at me while clutching the Bible and pressing it to his body. It's something that happened a long time ago. In my home village. It was back when I was still a boy. Isn't this your home? I thought you told me you grew up and lived here your whole life. The old man laughed a little and started to cough right away. When it was over, he continued talking. No, I was born in a Catholic village in southern Bavaria. It was a small, remote place up in the mountains. never told anyone about it.

Well, why didn't you? The old man didn't answer my question. He was quiet for a while, reminiscing before he continued talking. This is the story he told me. When I was a young boy, there were lots of strange local myths and legends in my home village.

I guess it was due to the remoteness. There were stories about beings who entered a person's house via the chimney to steal valuables. Others talked about mischievous fairies or tiny creatures that lived in the forest. It was about the so-called changeling. A changeling was a child that starts to act strange and shows inconspicuous behavior. They overeat, they break things or tire out their parents by screaming all the time. simply said, they behave much, much worse than other children.

They are the children of witches left behind instead of the real human child to create mischief. The stories like that, they were frequent back in the days. I can imagine that in some remote regions, they are even now. When a young boy in the village began to act strange, Gossip started. I don't remember how old he wasn't even ten yet. Well, he had moved to the village with his mother about a year and a half before. They lived in one of the cabins near the edge of the forest. They led a somewhat secluded lifestyle, and the woman and her son were rarely seen in the village. Well, after the first months, though, the boy appeared more, more often. But,

he behaved strangely. It seemed he didn't like to talk to people or maybe wasn't able to do so. He was shy and hid or ran away whenever someone tried to approach him. Now, of course, rumors about the boys soon started to make the rounds. It didn't help that the mother

stayed blissfully ignorant of the situation. It was mainly the older people who talked about it. They were always waiting for something like this to happen. Well, it wasn't long before the rest of the village joined in with their gossip and for the word changeling to be mentioned. Soon, everyone referred to the little boy as nothing but the changeling. It took no more than a week for him to become the village's main topic. New stories about his shenanigans were told every week. He was seen in the village at night, sneaking around the buildings or spying on people. The old women said he made the milk turn sour, or for the food to go bad.

Other stories include him playing tricks on the people and stealing their belongings. Even if something broke, the blame was put on the little boy. Well, one day, a hunter spread stories about the boy, talking to the wild animals and the forest spirits. He was in league with them, the hunter said. Soon the boy would send out the foxes to get the chickens and worse things to kill the other livestock. I am sure now that many, if not all of these accounts, were fictitious. I have to admit, though, that back then, even I started to believe the talk. It's not too surprising. considering how the boy acted.

There was some who said that he was harmless, odd, or feeble-minded. Overall, though, the situation and the mood in the village kept changing for the worse. It wasn't long before animals started to vanish. At first, it was only a cat, which is nothing out of the ordinary in a village. When more cats disappeared, though, The villagers were convinced that it must be the doing of the boy. One night, he was even seen outside holding a dead cat to his chest, running away as fast as he could.

At the same time, people's chickens started to be taken at night. In the morning, they'd find doors of their chicken coops to be broken down. Well, it was clear who was responsible. for all of it. Something had to be done. The boy, or better, his mother, had to be questioned. Soon after, things cooled down, though. It seemed as if the boy had done enough, and even he tired of his antics. For a few weeks, nothing at all happened. The people started to believe that his shenanigans were a thing of the past. That was until Frank Schmidt. daughter vanished. She was young, 12-year-old girl. Her parents had been worried when she didn't

return home from playing with friends. They started to ask the neighbors if anyone had seen her, but no one knew a thing. It wasn't long before search started. Maybe the girl had gotten in an accident or gotten herself lost in the woods. These things had happened before. The whole search It went on for hours. It was already dark when the girl was found. White body was hidden in the underbrush at the edges of the woods. Her body was covered in bruises and small wounds. Strangulation marks showed on her neck.

The girl's mother fell to her knees, crying, screaming, and hugging her child's body. Her father looked on only for a few moments before he exploded in a fit of Frank Schmidt had always been a brusque man. There was a cacophony of voices that rose into the night. More than a hundred people were here, but they were all saying the same thing, find and kill the changeling. I was shocked at what I was hearing.

But soon, I too was carried away by the moon. Mob mentality, it's a scary thing. I didn't know what was going on. I just followed along with the rest. People started to spread out to find the boy. One group headed for his home, the cabin near the woods. By sheer coincidence, I found myself right in the middle of this group. The mother was at fault, the people said.

She'd brought the devil child here and did nothing to stop him. It was her fault. As soon as we reached the cabin, door, the screaming started anew, followed by loud thumps against the door. After a short while, the boy's mother opened. She was shaken, visibly confused. Her eyes went from one person to the next. She didn't understand what was going on at sea. She looked scruffy, her clothes dirty and tattered. Where is the boy? The woman winced took a step back in fear. I don't know we're he is. There's been

home in days. Some people went forward, screaming at her, accusing her of hiding him inside. Some were already reaching out for her to hold her down. Why would I be hiding this thing? He's not my boy anymore.

He's something different. Demolished the whole house. Attacked me. He even bit me. And to prove it, she revealed the long cuts and scars on her arms. That thing is a changeling. I just want my boy back.

The only person who stepped forward was Frank Schmidt. The angry father pushed the woman aside to step into the building, not listening to a word she said. He'd only taken the first few steps inside when the other voices were heard. The boy, the boy had been seen. in the village. Without a second thought, Frank turned away from the house and began running, running towards the village. Other people followed him, reassured by the mother's words. I was with them again. While I hurried along, I had a strange feeling on my mind that I couldn't

put anywhere. It was only for a moment, though. When we were back in the village, it didn't take long for the boy to be caught. A small kid can only run and hide for so long. The boy didn't react to any questions. He was crying and trembling. He started to strike out at anyone who got close to him, scratched him, bit them. It only took one hit to break his resistance. Devil's child, I heard the people say around me. When I reached the village square, I could finally see the insanity that had taken hold of our small village. It was a crude, wooden construction. I first mistook it for a sort of wooden box,

something to trap the child in. Only when I saw the torches did things dawn on me. No, they couldn't mean to. This was wrong. I took a step forward, but noticed the gaze of the people around me. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I stopped right in my tracks. By God, he's just a boy, I heard someone yell and saw old Peter, our village's only teacher. The eyes of Frank Schmidt rested on the older man.

They were bloodshot and wide. Just a boy, Peter, that boy killed my little girl, he screamed. He raised his hands, and I saw old Peter inched back a step, afraid he'd get hit. Then Frank Schmidt said only one more thing. Tid, I was here. They couldn't possibly mean to. I wanted to say something, just something. I wanted to run towards them and stop them.

But I did nothing. I watched on motionless as they bowed. that boy to the wood. He tried to fight bad, but to no avail. Once he couldn't move, Frank Schmidt threw one of the torches on the world. This couldn't be real. I told myself, it was a nightmare. I looked at the people around me. Those were people I knew all my life, but now our eyes were wide. They looked on. They looked on, in fascination at the nightmare in front of them. For a moment, I saw the boy's mother. She was standing between the rest of her.

Watching on as they did. As the flames started to rise, I told myself, look away, close my eyes. I didn't want to see what was happening. In the end, though, I stood right between all those lunatics, and I watched on just as they did. It didn't take long for those flames to finally devour all of the wood, and eventually the boy.

First came the screams. The screams of a little boy. Disgusting smell. Human flesh. I still have it in my nose. After all these years, I can still smell it. The screams lasted only for a short one.

At first, it sounded similar to a child's weeping. Then, moments later, it rose to something that should never come from the mouth of a little kid. I lasted. It might have been minutes. Once the fire had faded, I was finally able to look away. Many people around me looked on as confused and as shocked as I must have been. Only now did they realize what had happened. And only now did they realize that they could never undo it.

It took me a while to realize the tears in my eyes. Others too were crying. It seemed the whole crowd was now murmuring and coming to their senses. I heard someone ask where the mother's boy had gone. Only a few of them answered. Most of them were still in shock, not yet understanding what had happened. I saw the eyes of the other boy,

many of them younger than me. They too had seen everything. Finally, someone told old Peter that they had seen her run away while the fire was still burning. Even if she thought the boy was a changeling or he had changed, it was still her child. At least it looks,

seeing her little boy. I liked it. Well, it wasn't long before a new search began. This time, far fewer people had participated. I can still remember the repulsion I felt for the whole damned village. When it was about hunting down and killing a little boy, they all joined in. When it was about finding the mother of that same boy, they did nothing. Our search efforts started almost.

it random. We looked here, we looked there, went up and down the village, until I finally remembered the cabin near the forest. It was only a few minutes later that we arrived at the door. Our calls were left unanswered, and after a few seconds, I opened the door. First, I only peered inside, then I pulled it open and entered the place. The hut was incomplete. chaos. The woman had been right. I called out once more, but it was evident that no one was here. We almost left to continue to search somewhere else, but then old Peter found the door to the base. We saw a light from downstairs. She must be down there, I thought. Yet another call got no answer. I rushed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. When I reached the last

stem. I saw couldn't be real. I shook my head. I closed my eyes and then took another look. A changeling is a witch's kid left to human parents. A real kid whose mother has turned into a witch. That is what came to my mind. What I saw in front of me was a woman. Was a woman. witch's kitchen, precisely like it was described in the stories. There were glass jars filled with strange liquids in all colors. The shelves were filled with old books and various herbs, roots, and much weirder things. There was even an experimenting dish that's chickens, and chickens, I thought. At that moment, everything made sense.

Now I knew what that strange feeling had been. There had been something wrong with the boy's mother, with her eyes. Eyes of a confused or scared woman? Of a lunatic. It all made sense now. How could a small kid break down the doors of chicken coops? How could such a little boy kill the girl much older than him? The boy must have been acting strangely.

out of fear for his mother. He had been hiding from her in the village. That's why he had always been there, even at night. He must have been abused, maybe even tortured. He must have been just an ordinary boy. Then we... This innocent little boy... The old man ended with a shaking voice.

He didn't even realize I was still sitting next to him. him on the bench. He pressed the Bible even harder against his chest now. Mr. Coons, it's all right. It's not like you did it. The old man finally looked at me. I did nothing at all. If someone would have just... He broke up. He didn't need to finish the sentence. I knew what he was trying to say. So what happened afterward? It took the old man some more time to calm down before answered me. No, when talked about it the next day.

One talked about it for some time. They bravered the boy in the cemetery and then pretended he'd been sick. Pretended that terrible night had never happened. Soon after though, people started to move away.

At first it was only one person, than a family, then another. My family too. We moved here. about two months after that horrible night, I'm sure that by now that village is all but gone. So they left because they...

Because they wanted to forget. To pretend nothing ever happened. That's the only reason anyone left. Even my parents told me to never tell anyone about that night. And to just do what they did. He broke up. again, with tears running from his eyes. I didn't forget. I will never forget what happened during that night, not until the end of

my life, even if that's all I can ever do. As our service concludes, we send you away with our blessings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, Please visit the no sleepbodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. Over 60 hours of content for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the no sleep podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week in our sleepless sanctuary. This audio production is copyright 2018-2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc.

All blessed rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, and